Those You've Known
by ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo
Summary: In a small, isolated mountain town, strange things begin to haunt the inhabitants. Animals die of mysterious consequences, the power flickers and cuts off, the water seems to have a mind of its own, and the dead are walking among the living with no memory of the time that has passed. e/e.
1. Eponine and Azelma

**Chapter One: Azelma**

 _Four years ago_

The mist settled over the roads like a lose-fitting jacket. The Alps jutted over the fuzzy haze, harsh and rocky in comparison to the pointy evergreens that dotted the valley. It was a regular morning—nothing different, nothing even remotely indicative of inevitable horror.

Eponine crept from her warm covers, surrupticiously dressed in sexy pajamas (lifted from the town department store, of course) under her bath robe. The voices of her mother and sister rang through the empty, cavernous house as they prepared for their day. Six forty-five in the morning.

Eponine strolled apathetically past the dusty family portraits and her sister's decorated bedroom door. The landing looked down into the kitchen if you could hold still long enough. She had a lot of practice—and Madame Thernardier seemed particularly distracted in the past few weeks.

"I don't want to go," Azelma complained. She was bundled up the way she had to be before Madame let her leave the house. Her jean jacket was lined with flannel, her scarf tightly wound around her neck, and her tights were so thick that there wasn't a hint of skin to be seen between her boots and her skirt.

"Well, your father and I already paid for your bus ticket and your meals, and we don't get a refund," Madame said, tucking Azelma's inky hair into her scarf.

The sixteen-year-old shook free of her mother's grasp. "Eponine doesn't have to go. Why should I?"

"Your sister is sick, Azelma."

Guilt colored the inside of Eponine's mouth. She thought of the storming night before. As the power flickered on and off throughout the town, she cleverly rubbed the thermometer against the palm of her hand until she got it to a sufficient degree so that she could skip out on the school field trip.

"You know what? I think I might be getting a fever."

A branch crashed against the roof, scraping the tiles as it fell. Eponine clung to the railing and scrunched her eyes at the screeching noise.

"Nice try. I took your temperature this morning and you are as cool as a cucumber."

Eponine rolled her eyes at Azelma's pathetic attempt. She thought her sister would have learned by now to not try and con their parents _right after_ Eponine did. Alas, poor Azelma was the sweeter and slower of the Thernardier girls. Life was bound to be hard on her once she realized how cold it was outside of mama and papa's arms.

Azelma looked up and met her twin's eyes. A shiver ran down Eponine's spine for reasons she couldn't explain. She wanted to mouth an apology—she wanted to give Azelma _something_ as a consolation present. Instead, Eponine raised her chin haughtily and broke her sister's gaze.

"Fantine!" Madame called. "Where the hell are you?"

Footsteps echoed on the impeccably-polished hardwood floors. Eponine could hear the maid's heavy breaths before she neared the landing. Though it was a godforsaken hour in the morning, the graying blonde wore rubber gloves up to her elbows and dark bags under her eyes.

"I'm right here, Madame," she said, wearily. Fantine glanced down at Eponine's huddled form on the landing, and her exhausted expression lifted for a moment. "Now, shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I was just— "

"I won't tell your mother," she said with a wink. "But hurry back to your room! You need to get some rest. I heard the flu is going around."

"Yes, Fantine," Eponine groaned, standing and hobbling back through her doorway. Right before the kitchen vanished from her sight, she looked once more.

Azelma was staring. Black eyes inlaid in a paler face than Eponine's. Her dark hair tousled by the hat that she'd just put on her head. She was staring at Eponine. Accusing her. Blaming her.

Eponine gulped.

Seven in the morning.

Once her mother and sister left (seven thirty in the morning), Eponine waited until she heard Fantine leave as well, off to run errands for the Thernardiers while they went about their respective days. Per usual, Monsieur would spend his hours at the dingy Corinthe, the only bar in town, spending more time drinking the whisky than selling it. Madame would join him for a time, helping to pick up whatever bits and pieces had been left behind the night before. Azelma would depart on her school field trip.

Eponine was going to lose her virginity.

At eight, she rose from her bed, abandoning her robe in a fuzzy green pile on the floor. She took echoing, lonely footsteps to the bathroom, ready to do her hair and make up for The Moment with Montparnasse.

She was breaking a promise she and Azelma made when they were ten. A promise made in whispers and pinky shakes by twins who were so deeply connected they thought nothing could break them apart. So long as both of them loved Montparnasse, neither could have him.

Eponine examined her skin and hair in the warped mirror. The humidity had seeped into the wall upon which the mirror was mounting it, bending and causing the image to be distorted.

The lights above her snapped off and on. Just once. Eight-o-nine.

She twisted the knob on the sink and cleaned the underside of her bare fingernails. As she dug out a spec of dirt from beneath her palm, the water sputtered and suddenly the clear stream was dirty and brown. Nearly black.

Disgusted, she pulled her hand away from the water and shut it off quickly. Eponine bent to see if there was something blocking the faucet.

The lights flickered once more.

And there was a scurrying from inside the pipes.

Bugs—beetles, ants, spiders, maggots, roaches, and wasps came crawling up into the sink, accompanied by that disgusting black water.

Eponine screamed and jumped away.

Then it was gone.

The lights stayed on.

The ceramic basin was clear of crawling critters.

She clenched her eyes shut. _Death is here,_ she thought.

Eight fifteen.

At eight thirty, Montparnasse entered the Thernardier household. Azelma, along with thirty-one classmates, climbed aboard a school bus.

At eight thirty-seven, Eponine let Montparnasse lay her down on her bed.

At eight thirty-nine, Azelma squirmed in her seat. Uncomfortable. Something was happening to Eponine—she could feel it.

At eight forty, he was inside her.

At eight forty, Azelma jumped up from her seat and stumbled down the aisle, gasping for air.

At eight forty-one, Eponine realized that The First Time wasn't all it was chalked up to be.

At eight forty-one, Azelma banged her fists against the closed door of the bus, begging and screaming to be let out.

At eight forty-two, the bus swerved as it rounded a sharp mountain curve. Unable to gain control of the vehicle, the driver watched with grim certainty and heartache as the edge of the cliff grew nearer.

At eight forty-three, Eponine screamed as she was suddenly engulfed in pain like she'd never known. She felt as though there was a knife sticking through her back, carving out her shoulder blades.

Azelma Thernardier's time of death: 08:43.

Later that day, as Eponine stood with her mother and father in the morgue to identify her twin's body, she looked down at her own face, surrounded by raven hair, and couldn't help but feel as if it were her fault.

* * *

 _Present day_

The lights in the Corinthe flickered, starting from the edges and making their way inwards, until the entire bar was tossed into a tripping, strobe-light-like nightmare. The horror of seeing familiar faces made gaunt and maniac vanished when the room was plunged into darkness; the only lights that blinked were from cell phone screens. Eponine, unfazed, just tipped back her fourth shot of the night.

"God damn it. I hate Musain so fucking much," Grantaire muttered, lighting a candle so that he could see behind the bar.

"You know, for someone who says that a lot, you sure haven't made much of an effort to get out of here," she snapped. "Give me another."

"Actually, I think- as a friend- I have to cut you off. You have class tomorrow," he said with a wince, pulling her shot glass towards him.

"Fuck that. Fuck you," she hissed, grabbing it back. "Technically, I own this place, so I can fire you."

"No, your weaseling, alcoholic father owns this place. You don't own shit," he joked. Still, he pulled out a translucent bottle of vodka and let it dribble into the shot.

Suddenly all too vulnerable in the crowded bar, Eponine shrunk into herself, staring at the knock-off mahogany bar. "Don't you realize what tomorrow is?"

There was a beat of nothing between them before Grantaire realized. "Oh, shit. Sorry, 'Ponine."

"It's the fourth anniversary, you know. She could have gotten into the Sorbonne- lord knows her grades were good enough. She could have been going to school in America. She could be travelling the world. She could be _married_... But instead she's six feet under and _I'm_ the one who got to survive," she forced in one prolonged breath. Her throat ached on the last syllable as thunder cracked and reverberated through the valley.

The lights blinked back on. The jukebox lurched to life. The fairy lights once again illuminated the wall of bottles.

"The next one's on the house," Grantaire said, an alcoholic's most sincere comfort.

She snorted. "I'm the owner's daughter. They're all on the house."

The music faded to complete silence as the songs switched. Grantaire moved to a customer a few stools down. A woman with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in clothes reminiscent of a time where fashion was basically dead. Eponine swigged her last two shots. _Finally_ she started to feel the liquor in her veins.

 _Took damn long enough_.

The other bartender stood a few feet away, staring blankly into the distance, a rag in one hand and a glass in another.

"Musichetta? Is everything alright?"

The music started up again, loud and throbbing. Some catchy tune from several years back, familiar enough that voices in the bar began to sing along.

"Why is there so little noise?" the other woman asked, still not meeting Eponine's eyes.

"What the hell are you on? This place is just as loud as it always is."

Musichetta snapped her eyes to Eponine's. There was genuine worry ingrained in the green. Something empty and haunting floated there. "Not the bar. The dead are quiet- too quiet."

Eponine rolled her eyes.

"They're completely silent."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," she said, snapping her fingers in Musichetta's face. "Focus. It's a busy night tonight. Everyone knew someone who died in the crash. We're all drinking to forget tonight."

Grantaire whistled as he slid back over to Eponine. "Have you ever seen the fine piece of ass that just walked through the door?"

She turned in her stool to see a striking form against the regular Corinthe crowd. His blond hair was slicked away from his face, curly at the nape of his neck. His skin was paler than the moon on the lake, and he wore a disheveled suit. A tie that stood out against his white shirt like a line of blood.

"Actually, I think so. He looks familiar," she said, absentmindedly. As the pale man pushed through the crowd, she racked her brain, trying desperately to place him. He was too unique looking to just resemble someone she might have seen on television. He was too haughty to be anyone she would have interacted with.

The man came to stand close to her. She could almost feel the blood through his veins, though his skin didn't flush from exertion, excitement, or cold.

"Is Cosette here?" he asked Grantaire, sharply.

Grantaire shook his head. "Uh, not that I know of. Take a look around, she might be at the pool tables or-"

" _No,_ Cosette Fauchelevant. She's a waitress here."

"No she's not," Grantaire chuckled.

The blond man didn't seem to find any amusement in the situation. "Yeah, she is."

"Look, _mon ami_ , if a Cosette worked here, I'd know."

Finally defeated, the man blinked, revealing something other than stone in his expression.

"I know a Cosette," Eponine blurted without meaning to. The man (the ghost? the angel? the phantom?) turned suddenly to her, burning his gaze into hers with eyes as blue as ice.

"Do you know where I can find her?" he asked, desperately.

"Better yet, I can show you," she provided. "C'mon, or else it'll get dark."

She couldn't help it. She threw her head back at her own joke. The stranger stared at her blankly.

Outside, the night was as deep as dark could be. Once the sun vanished behind the Alps in the evening, you'd better hope you had a flashlight or a streetlight to guide you through the twisted turns of the Musain streets.

Eponine stepped from the warm bar into the chilled night, allowing her eyes to adjust to the complete blackness. As she shivered, waiting to see the path, the stranger draped his coat over her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said. He didn't respond. "For helping you, can I get your name?"

"Enjolras."

"Is that a first or a last?"

Once again, no response.

"You're not very talkative."

They began to make their way down the hill and through the tunnel system. A man in a hoodie walked by them, brushing against Eponine's arm as he passed. His form was quiet and quick and dark, more like a shadow than a person. When she turned back for a second look, he had vanished. Fear struck her, but she swallowed it down and hurried her pace to match Enjolras's.

"How do you know Cosette?" he asked.

"He speaks!" she exclaimed. They came across a creek, burbling playfully, cracking the ice that still persisted in the nooks and crannies of boulders. Like a native, Enjolras hopped across the natural bridge. She followed, mimicking the steps she'd known since childhood. "Cosette and I know each other... well, let's just say that it's complicated. We're friends. Sort of." Eponine left it at that. "How long are you in town?"

"I've never left," he said, shortly. "I was born here and I intend to die here."

"That's weird. I've never seen you around the Corinthe before," she thought aloud, stumbling a little as she missed a rock that jutted from the ground. A noise sounded in the forest nearby and she was suddenly so very thankful she wasn't alone in her journey.

"I've never seen you there, either," he said. The tone implied that he no longer wanted to speak, so Eponine swallowed her questions and sarcastic quips as they rounded the bend and returned to a concrete road. The cracks seemed so deep in the dim moonlight that it was almost as though they cut straight to hell. No lights were on in any of the houses along Rue Plumet, casting the sense of a ghost neighborhood.

"She lives in number fifty four," Eponine said, pointing to a uniformly-made house (pale blue and tastefully landscaped in the light) that was indistinguishable from the rest.

He said nothing more to her, just rushed past as though he was never there in the first place. A pale spot against the dark, he moved as smooth as a spirit.

"You're welcome, asshole!" she shouted after him.

* * *

Carefully, so as to not alert Fantine of her shamefully late arrival, Eponine slipped her legs over the window sill and fell silently to the floor. A wind blew her curtains around her, brushing her face and caressing her arms. She reached up to close her window, but as the wind picked up speed, knick knacks on her dresser began to shake and a picture frame fell from her wall, crashing and shattering against the floor.

Eponine slammed her window shut and stood still in the pitch-black silence for several heartbeats, waiting to see if she could hear Fantine waking up. When there was nothing, she exhaled slowly and crossed to the unfortunate picture. She picked it up.

It was a photograph taken by the lake when she and Azelma were about fourteen. They were looking over their shoulders at the camera, arms linked and smiles static against their chubby cheeks. A crack ran across the glass, splintering along the photographed Eponine's back. A phantom pain brushed along her shoulders, reminding her of four years ago. Azelma under a white sheet.

A few knocks sounded against the wall that once separated the twins's rooms. Eponine started, then relaxed. She figured that Fantine must have been praying by the little make-shift shrine to Azelma that took over the bedroom after she died. Eponine knocked once (which meant, a long, long time ago, that she wanted Azelma to come to her bedroom to talk) to tell her caretaker that she was okay, and went to prepare for bed.

As she pulled her sweater over her head, her bedroom door creaked open, light spilling over the floorboards. Eponine spun around, only to freeze at the sight of a very familiar, very solid, silhouette.

"Azelma?" she whispered.

* * *

 **Yay! I'm back! I got this idea from a TV show. If you need something to watch on Netflix, just message me and I'll happily recommend it to you! However, for the sake of this story, I won't openly say what show this is based on so that the AU and the source material can remain separate.**

 **I would like to apologize for any rough writing- I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.**

 **Please review if you liked!**


	2. Enjolras

**Chapter Two: Enjolras**

 _Ten years earlier_

Enjolras sat on the brass bench, staring blankly at city hall across the street. He didn't know what he was thinking. Why did he promise her he would take her in? He was twenty-two, hardly equipped to properly care for a teenage girl. He was a law student, poor, and far too short tempered.

Besides, he didn't deserve Cosette. Even after years in the system, she remained sweet, innocent, and kind, despite working under the seedy Thernardier and being subjected to the stares and gropes of grown men as she waitressed at the Corinthe. She was strong and kind. And, if he didn't become her guardian, she would be shipped to a group foster home in Marseilles. He didn't want to say goodbye to her in the slightest, and she felt the same about him. She was a sister, a daughter, and his best friend wrapped into one. But he just couldn't take care of her.

And yet, he'd made a promise. He glanced at his watch. Ten twenty-three. He was supposed to meet Cosette at ten thirty.

Enjolras slumped forwards, pressing his face into the palms of his hands.

What was he supposed to do?

Ten twenty-six.

He stood, though he joints and bones creaked and groaned. City hall was waiting. Cosette was waiting. He looked down at the forms in his hands.

Ten thirty.

There was simply a stretch of concrete between him and the courthouse. The busiest road in town.

He knew what he had to do.

Ten thirty-one.

* * *

The nervous secretary who'd been looking at her for the past fifteen minutes finally stood from behind her desk and walked over.

"Sweetie, are you waiting for someone? Do you need help?"

Cosette didn't answer the lady's inquiries. Instead, she looked at her dress. It was new. She and her mama pooled together their money to buy her a nice dress. All Fantine wanted was for Cosette to be cared for, and as the Thernardiers were stringent, Fantine still couldn't provide for her. Now that Enjolras was of age, she had a possibility for actual stability with one of the most important people in her life.

"He's coming," she said, attempting to convince herself.

"Okay," the secretary said, haltingly, and returned to her desk. Moments later, she picked up her phone and began talking.

As Cosette stared at the door of the social services department, the woman spoke candidly to someone who was certainly not a professional contact.

Ten forty-three.

"I know! It's so sad. But it was bound to happen eventually—that crosswalk was so poorly placed. Did they ever figure out who it was?"

At ten forty-five, someone finally walked through the door. It was the stern Sherriff Javert, with his regularly grave look etched around his mouth. He was trailed by a young rookie who glanced around, bumbling.

They took one look at Cosette and then turned to each other.

She tore her eyes away from them and looked back down at the clean fabric of her dress.

 _No. They're not looking at me. Why would they? I've done nothing wrong._

Footsteps sounded against the tiles. Heavy, echoing, and slow. They crept towards her as the doubt and the fear that she kept controlled began to wind around her heart.

Someone cleared their throat. She looked up into the kind, worried green eyes of the rookie cop. He looked hardly older than her, and his face was flushed under the sprinkle of brown freckles that fell across his cheeks.

"Are you Cosette Fauchelevant?" he asked. There was something in his voice that struck her cold.

"Oui," she whispered.

"Do you know a Luke Enjolras?"

"Oui…"

The freckled boy looked back at his supervisor, who nodded. He stepped forward and took Cosette's hand. She stared at their fingers, pressed together, and realized what was always said whenever doctors or cops took your hand.

 _No. NO. No. NONONONONONONONONO._

"There's been an accident…"

Her breath was sucked out of her chest as her vision blurred. Her knees buckled. Her fingernails dug into the palm of the poor police officer. Cosette collapsed to the floor of city hall.

 _Enjolras…_

* * *

 _Present day_

Enjolras forced his eyes open. Crusted over with sleep, it was nearly painful. His back ached, and his head was no better. After registering the sheer uncomfortable pain, he realized where he was. When he did, he jolted up.

He was still on the bench. Across the street, city hall was closed for the day.

 _I missed her,_ he realized, beginning to panic. _I fell asleep trying to decide whether or not to adopt Cosette, and now I've become one of the many people who've abandoned her._

He forced himself to his feet, although it was excruciatingly painful to do so. He felt as though he'd run a marathon then slept for forty-seven hours afterwards. It looked as though he'd been out for a ridiculously long time—judging by the lack of traffic, it was close to two in the morning.

He and Cosette were going to go to brunch with Fantine and Enjolras's law professor, Valjean. Afterwards, he was going to move Cosette's things out of the Thernardier's house and into his own apartment.

What did she do? Was she okay? Did she hate him?

He fumbled through his suit, searching for his phone. Surely he had thousands of notifications. Cosette was sweet, but she was blunt. If she was angry with him, he would know. She wouldn't passive aggressively shut him out until he apologized.

His phone wasn't there.

Furious with himself, the situation, and the fact that after everything he'd been robbed, he began to storm towards the Corinthe. Surely she was working—it was 2 am on a Friday. Thernardier would need all the help he could get. In fact, he probably was putting his daughters to work as well.

The night was strangely quiet. The stars were hidden by thin clouds, and the mountains seemed more like monsters. As Enjolras passed a line of street lights, they blinked and stuttered until they ceased to work. All around him, storefront lights and billboards shut off. He watched as the entire town was plunged into darkness.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as though a freezing breeze caressed his back. Enjolras turned, but he couldn't see if there was lurking in the dark. Even the moon had fled the sky.

Something was wrong. More than just a power-out, more than just Enjolras—who rarely slept more than the bare minimum—taking a sixteen-hour nap on a metal bench.

The town lights slowly clipped back on, sending the valley back to its regular state of twinkling lights amidst the fog and the inky mountain dark.

He shuddered and pulled his suit jacket closer around his body.

As he continued to walk, he passed a few other late-night stragglers, looking just as lost as he felt. Some of them wore strange clothing, styles from back before Enjolras had even been born.

Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was hallucinating.

All he knew was he had to find Cosette and apologize, though it felt less and less like the usually quaint town of Musain was anywhere she would be. It felt more like hell than home—like the mirrored version of itself.

Or maybe it was Enjolras who was different. Maybe he just felt strange after sleeping for so long.

At least one thing was its regular self—the Corinthe was a beacon in the night in all its sleazy glory. Packed to the bursting point and blaring music through the cracked-open windows, people spilled out of the doors just as intoxicated as they'd always been.

Enjolras pushed past a couple, leaning on each other. As he passed them, he couldn't help but see that their eyes were shiny in the night. Like those of dolls.

He shrugged off the strange sight and pushed through the doors.

There were no children running about like there'd been as long as the Thernardier twins were smart enough to know how to clean glasses and make drinks. The child labor was mildly illegal, but it helped fifteen-year-old Cosette make a little money.

He pushed his way to the bar. The Corinthe seemed more crowded than usual… typically, there was an even distribution of customers between this bar and the one on the west side of town.

There were two strangers behind the bar.

That horrid, haunting feeling was back.

 _This isn't Musain._

A woman, sat on one of the rickety bar stools, turned around. He felt a bit of the vines around his heart loosen when he vaguely recognized her face. He didn't know her name, nor did he know exactly where she was from, but those brown eyes and that defiant chin were comforting features in a pool of unrecognizable faces.

He looked at the main bartender, a man with whisky staining his breath. Enjolras was suddenly and viciously filled with disgust. He had no patience with people who possessed no self control. What alcoholic would be dumb enough to work as a bartender?

"Is Cosette here?" he demanded.

The man just blinked. "Uh, not that I know of." He pointed behind Enjolras, at the lounge. Students were playing pool and air-hockey, as they always did. The small dance floor was dotted with people who just bounced to the beat of the music. The little stage in the corner was empty. "Take a look around, she might be at the pool tables or-"

Enjolras took a quick breath. The bartender got Cosette's name confused, so Enjolras repeated himself. " _No_ , Cosette Fauchelevant. She's a waitress here."

There was a beat of silence.

"No she's not."

 _What?_ Nothing made sense. How could so much have changed in the course of a few hours?

"Yeah, she is."

"Look, _mon ami-"_

Enjolras gritted his teeth. Unnecessary familiar terms annoyed him to no end.

"-If a Cosette worked here, I'd know."

Actually stupored, for the first time since he could read, Enjolras stood back on the balls of his feet. The music scraped his ears, out of key and hallowing. He held back a flinch, wondering why no one else in the bar seemed concerned by it.

"I know a Cosette," an alto voice said nearby.

He turned to the woman who looked slightly familiar. Her eyes were glazed over with drunkenness, and even then, her jaw was set and her hands were steady. Her long, wild, chestnut hair was wound into a tight bun on the back of her head, but even then the strands that escaped were curly and frizzy. She kind of looked like- _no_. That was creepy. Comparing her to a ten-year-old girl was simply disgusting, so he tried to cast away that image.

She _did_ resemble the Thernardier twins, though. Perhaps she was a cousin.

"Do you know where I can find her?"

The woman's mouth turned upwards, an alluring grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Better yet, I can show you." She stood from her bar stool, knocking back one last shot. "C'mon, or else it'll get dark."

Struck with confusion, he wondered if maybe he was crazier than he initially thought. It was darker than the bartender's future.

The woman laughed, perhaps at his perplexed look or at some joke that only she understood. He realized a little too late that she'd been alluding to the constant state of darkness the town Musain seemed to be.

* * *

It had been a longer walk than he'd expected. Instead of being led to the home of the Thernardiers, the woman- or, really, girl... she wasn't older than he was, and he still thought of himself as pre adulthood- led him through winding paths to a part of town that, as far as Enjolras knew, must have been renovated while he had been focused on finals. He only remembered woods being where houses now were.

She stopped him when they approached a uniform street a few blocks from a newly-constructed elementary school. "She lives in number fifty-four," she said, pointing. Enjolras couldn't pick out the numbers, but he knew that he had to get going.

 _Why was she here? When did she move? Did someone in town decide to foster her when I fucked up?_

He picked up his pace, jogging past houses and empty, black windows. They all looked the same.

He heard the girl shout after him, "You're welcome, asshole!"

Enjolras felt no guilt. He had to find Cosette and talk to her- maybe she knew what had happened. Why everything in the town was suddenly so strange.

As he read the little addresses engraved on the identical mailboxes, a house just ahead of him suddenly broke open. Light spilled out of the crevices of the bottom floor, dancing along the dead grass and sending lines down the dark street. A window that stretched from what seemed to be the floor to the ceiling revealed a woman. A woman _woman_ , not a student. Not a teenager. A grown woman.

She had the same strawberry-blond hair as his Cosette, but she was taller. Her hips were fleshier, and when she turned just a little, her chest was significantly larger. She held a glass of rose in her hand as she gazed in a mirror that sent more flashes of light to the darkness outside.

The woman reached for something that sat on a table, and slid it into her hair. It was a layered, translucent veil, embroidered with little flowers and lace. It suited Cosette- _his_ Cosette, but this couldn't be her. This wasn't the same five-year-old that clung to his hand when they were locked in a closet by the meaner kids in the foster home. Not the same child he held on his shoulders, or the one he tutored through middle school, or the one that cried when he graduated high school because she thought he'd go off to Paris.

The woman's eyes met his in the mirror, and she started, covering her mouth. But before she did, he saw her mouth "Enjolras".

His heart thundered in his chest. He didn't know how it was possible, but this was Cosette. Maybe she could help him.

He ran to the front door and knocked, expecting her to answer immediately. She didn't come to the door. He knocked again, then pressed his ear to the wood. He heard her slow, shuffling steps. She was coming, but she was coming really slowly.

"Cosette?" he called. There was no response. "Cosette? Open the door!"

He banged, hard. "Please! Open the door! I need to talk to you!"

"No!" she cried, her voice muffled. "Go away! Leave me alone!"

"Cosette?" he let his fists fall away from the door. On the other side, she was beating it.

"GO AWAY. GO AWAY. Go away."

His heart finally cracked. He didn't cry. He was not a crier, and yet tears burned in his eyes.

Why was this happening? Why? What... what the hell was going on?

Dizzy, disoriented, and heartbroken, Enjolras sat on the road.

 _I'm in hell._

* * *

"Hey, 'Chetta, if you want to go home I can close up," Grantaire said, nodding at the empty Corinthe. It was littered with debris from the rush, and the jukebox was still dejectedly playing a tune for the two people left behind at closing time.

"Really?" she asked. He nodded, smiling and ruffling her wild hair.

She tried to smile back, but she was just exhausted. The strange silence in her head lasted only so long, and when it was over suddenly there was nothing but noise. Cries of pain and confusion, screams of realization. She couldn't pick out any singular voices.

Musichetta trotted down the hill upon which the Corinthe was mounted, and followed the winding path through the tunnel that went under the roads. The orange lights flickered as she hurried through, passing by a form in a hoodie as she did. The tunnel suddenly seemed to lengthen, and her panic seized her. She wasn't going to make it out of this concrete pathway.

Suddenly, someone grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. Her head cracked against the graffiti-ed concrete, and the world went hazy. She couldn't make out the face of her attacker as he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed.

She hadn't the energy to fight back, and all she could do was wrap her hands around his wrists. He had eyes. Strangely kind eyes.

She held no anger towards him. In the last few moments before everything went black, she knew two things:

he didn't understand that he was hurting her, and his name was Bossuet.

* * *

 **Oh yikes! So now we know that the dead don't know they're dead, and also Musichetta has been attacked! What will happen next?**

 **Also, shout out to shadows-of-1832, astoryinred, guest, and MiserableRenthead for your reviews! I'm glad you enjoyed it! :)**

 **Please review! I will try and have the next installation out within the next few days.**


	3. Courfeyrac

**A/N: Hey! So, though I will be introducing _another_ story line this chapter, I will also address the ones we've already touched on (Eponine and Enjolras).**

 **Also, once again, I apologize for the writing. I've been on spring break (I MET AARON TVEIT IN NEW YORK) so this has been written in little bursts here and there.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Courfeyrac**

 _Seven years earlier_

October chill pierced the valley and fog circled the mountains as heavy music throbbed behind Courfeyrac. He turned to look at the house just behind him- lit with orange fairy lights and decorated with macabre skulls and streaks of blood. An angel sat in the lap of a devil and Marilyn Monroe made out with Al Capone.

It was Halloween in a college town- and it was beautiful.

Two drunk figures stumbled from the house. Tinkerbell and Peter Pan, clutching hands and giggling like the lovesick children they were.

"Courfeyrac!" Marius called, dragging Cosette behind him. "Where are you going? It's only 1:30!"

"And I have a workout date before work with Combeferre at five. I need all three hours of sleep I might get if I go home now," he said to his friends.

"Or, better yet, don't sleep at all," Cosette suggested, stepping forward and grabbing his hand. "This party will die right now if drag Wonder Woman leaves."

He snorted. "I doubt that."

"You'll regret it," Marius teased, coming up behind Cosette and wrapping his arms around her mint-green waist.

"And you'll regret going to work hungover tomorrow, especially since Javert already hates you because you've been dating an underage girl for three years."

"Hey!" Cosette exclaimed, sinking further into Marius's arms. "We didn't date until last year, and we didn't _do_ anything until I turned eighteen. Hell, he only kissed me once before then."

"Sure. Whatever you say," Courfeyrac said with a wink. "I really have to go, though."

Ignoring the couple's continued protests, he clicked down the empty sidewalks in his heeled boots. Knowing he had a long walk to the bus stop, perhaps wearing such high heels was a bad idea. It was eerie, really, how the world seemed to cease its existence once he was out of earshot of the music. The only sound was of his footsteps and heavy breaths as he made his way to the tunnel.

He scratched at his head- he was _really_ regretting the wonder woman outfit now, though upon its first conception it seemed like such a wonderful idea. The curly, brown wig was itching and the corset was making it hard to breathe.

Someone else entered the tunnel from the other end, a hunched, hooded figure. As the two of them passed each other, a chill ran down Courfeyrac's spine.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm.

"Maman?" the other man asked. He wore a sketchy, homemade mask over his face, concealing any defining features.

"Sorry, dude, I'm not your mother," Courfeyrac muttered, trying to pull free. The man's grasp wouldn't budge.

"You won't hurt us anymore."

 _What?_

The rest happened so quickly he couldn't quite register it. There were hands around his throat, pressing him against the wall of the tunnel, squeezing.

 _No..._ He thought as he fought for dear life. _Nine women killed in this tunnel in two years... all alone, all with dark, curly hair..._

As the orange lights began to turn black in his vision, Courfeyrac noticed that his assailant was crying.

* * *

 _Present day_

Courfeyrac sat at the bus stop, staring at his phone in disbelief. Seven years... seven years, the Strangler had been inactive, and suddenly there's another attack. Musichetta, the waitress at the Corinthe was the next victim... Alone, dark curly hair, tunnel...

He dropped his phone into his lap and breathed heavily. He'd survived, but just barely. To this day, he still felt as though he'd lost a part of himself that Halloween night that no amount of doctors or therapy could return. Almost as though the Strangler left town with Courfeyrac's soul.

The bus hissed up to where he sat, and he hurriedly bounded up the steps, pressing a few coins into the hand of the bus driver. He hated being in the dark by himself... yes, he was a grown man, but fears are solid no matter what age you are.

The only other person on the bus was a boy, somewhere between ten and twelve, with stringy blonde hair. He stared at Courfeyrac. Unsettled, Courfeyrac turned towards the front of the bus, feeling the child's gaze on the back of his neck.

 _He must be homeless, lonely, and lost,_ he told himself. _Don't be frightened just because his eyes have lingered._

Even then, he waited impatiently for the bus to stop at his apartment building, and once it did, he leapt up and all but ran off the bus. There were light footsteps behind him.

He turned, and there was the boy, looking up with big, blue eyes.

"Do you want some money? Some food? Are you lost?"

There was no answer, but the boy stepped forward and slipped his hand into Courfeyrac's.

 _What the fuck do I do now?_

* * *

It all seemed to happen so quickly. One minute, Eponine was trying to push the strange man from the Corinthe out of her head. He seemed eerily familiar. His eyes rose through her memories, dredging thoughts of childhood nights and slow dances through smoke, and a song…

 _I love the way you sleep when you're angry…_

But it couldn't be. The band that wrote the song used to frequent the Corinthe, but they fell apart after their manager died when Eponine was ten. Les Amis de l'ABC, they were called. Why did he rise to her mind with that song behind him? He had nothing to do with the band.

And yet, she could have sworn she'd seen the blonde man's face before…

Her thoughts were distracted by a knock on her wall and just like that, there was a form framed against the light coming from the hallway, their face darkened by shadows, and yet Eponine would recognize her sister anywhere. _Azelma…_ The girl she buried four years ago.

The thing that wore her sister's face stepped towards her, mouth hanging open and dark eyes bright and _alive._ Eponine jolted away, crashing against her dresser. The dull pain in her back told her this wasn't a dream.

"Fantine!" she screamed, sinking to the floor and curling into herself. _Ghosts aren't real. The dead are good and gone. Azelma is in a coffin, buried, in the same place she's been for the past four years._ Once again, she cried out for her caregiver, "FANTINE!"

Fantine's footsteps sounded in the hall—far away, too far away—and just above that, layered like ages of dirt over a body, the sound of soft crying. The footsteps stopped, finally close enough.

Eponine opened her eyes, expecting Fantine to help her now that she'd gone crazy. Instead, her heart throbbed when the woman chose to kneel at the side of the monster masquerading as Azelma.

"Maman," the thing cried. "I want maman…"

"What the hell is going on?" Eponine snapped, forcing herself to stand. Her knees threatened to buckle out from under her.

"Eponine—"

"What is she? Why is she here?"

Fear and anger wrestled in her, simmering under her skin. She wished she could slice open her arm and bleed out the emotions and feel normal again.

Gently, Fantine said, "This is Azelma. It's your sister." Her voice was obnoxiously calm.

"No, it's not," Eponine seethed. "Azelma is gone, you know that. My sister _died_ four years ago. I don't know what this thing is, but it sure as hell isn't her."

The girl on the ground sobbed, clinging to Fantine, quivering like a browned leaf in the winter wind.

"Maman… where is maman?"

Unable to take it any longer, Eponine screamed, "Shut up!" Angry tears burned in her eyes. "Shut up, shut up _, SHUT UP_!"

"Eponine!" Fantine exclaimed, horrified. Once again, the repetitive spirit sniggled.

"I want maman."

"Mother _died._ So did Azelma. They died and left me alone. _YOU LEFT ME."_

"Shhh," Fantine cooed, standing and reaching out a hand. Eponine just stared at it. "I'm here. I won't leave you. I'm here, Eponine. And, by some inexplicable miracle, so is Azelma. Let's just be grateful."

Eponine's heart thudded in her chest. Surely she was dreaming. This couldn't actually be happening. The beats of heavy silence were suffocating. Thankfully, a soft voice broke the quiet.

"Is maman really dead?" Azelma asked. Her voice was thick.

Hesitantly, Eponine nodded. "She died of lung cancer last year. By the time she was diagnosed, there was nothing that could be done."

Azelma nodded, slowly. "And papa?"

"Just as useless as he was when you were alive, only now he rinks more and refuses to return home," Eponine said, bitterly.

Azelma winced. "Is it my fault?"

Eponine didn't bother humoring Fantine's silent plea to be gentle. "Yes."

"Eponine!"

"I'm not going to lie to her," she said, defensively. The light from the hallway was suddenly way to bright, like the mocking glow of an unattainable heaven. Eponine blinked, the cold air from her open window numbing her back. "I… I can't do this," she muttered, pushing past Fantine and Azelma.

She stomped through the dusty, cavernous hallways of the nearly empty house, ignoring the voices that called after her. Barely remembering to grab a jacket off the hanger by the door, she braced herself against the cold, damp air. Through her teary vision and desperate desire for a drink, she didn't notice as the lights in her house flickered sporadically before plunging into darkness.

* * *

Dizzy, disoriented, cold, and lost, Enjolras stepped back to the place he knew the best. The Corinthe. Where the hell was his phone? Why was his apartment code changed? Maybe one of the band members would be there. Maybe they could help him…

But he thought Cosette would help him. He thought Cosette was the person who loved him the most, and yet he was proven wrong.

The lights were off but for a singular string of fairy lights along the bar. The woman from earlier was sitting on the stool, slowly drinking. A familiar song played over the speakers.

 _I love the way you sleep when you're angry…_

He wrote it, back when he thought he was in love with a fellow student at the university. He couldn't even remember the girl's name.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, taking a seat beside the girl.

She chuckled darkly. "They've gone home. The Corinthe closes at 2 am. Everyone knows that."

"No… Last call is always at four," he shot back. "It always has been."

She snorted. "Nice try. We changed it seven years ago."

 _What?_

Not that he hadn't figured it out already, but he knew that something was very, very wrong. He needed to find some way to figure out exactly how long it had been since… since the day he stopped remembering everything. What had he done in those years? What did he look like? Enjolras was afraid to look in the mirror.

"2006… how long ago was that?" he asked, casually. The girl looked at him funnily before rolling her eyes.

"Either you're stupid or you're drunk. Either way, you might actually be fun to talk to."

"My math isn't the best."

That was a lie. He had a criminal justice degree and a minor in algebra.

"It was ten years ago. Literally the easiest year you could have asked about."

Suddenly everything hurt his head. The song that he used to be so proud of, the sound of the ice clinking in the glass cup, and the dim lights. He leaned forward, clutching his head and moaning.

"Damn, are you alright?"

"No… just…" he forced himself to sit up and fake a smile. "It feels like it was just yesterday."

 _Literally_.

"I know how you feel. If I see that a movie came out in 2012, I'll think, _wow, that was like, last year_."

 _Not at all what I meant._

"I'm Jean-Luc Enjolras," he said, holding out his hand. Staring into her eyes, he was suddenly struck. He knew exactly who this girl was. It was one of Thernardier's young daughters who used to run around and wreak havoc on the bar.

"I'm Eponine Thernardier. My dad owns this place."

"Yeah, I know."

"Then how didn't you recognize me earlier?"

"I haven't seen you, but everyone knows your dad."

She scowled, staring into her scotch. "Yeah, don't remind me."

"Is there any way you could help me find Cosette?" he asked. She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I already helped you. Thanks for the thanks, by the way." She muttered into her drink, "Asshole."

"Thanks. But… I need to see her again. In a public space."

"Why? Did you guys not have the sweet reunion you expected?" she asked, sarcastically.

"No. We didn't. And I want to talk to her, but she won't freak out in public," he said. "I don't think so, anyway."

"How do you even know her? She hasn't dated anyone except Marius. Unless you two were middle school lovers or something," she teased.

"That's gross. We're old friends."

 _Ten years… she's twenty five. She's a woman. She's older than I am—than I_ was _, last time I remember._

"Well, I'll help you, but this is the second time I've assisted a boy chasing after her. It gets a little tiring being the messaging girl," she said, blandly.

"The second time?"

She blinked. "Are you sure you live around here? Everyone knows the story of Marius and Cosette."

"Refresh me."

"They met when she was fifteen and he was eighteen. He flirted with her for two years by having my sister and I deliver messages. When she was seventeen they began to date and now they're engaged. Getting married next week. The whole town is going."

 _I should have been there. I should have given her advice and made sure he wouldn't hurt her,_ he thought, but he couldn't help but also be grateful that she had someone with her during… during the years he couldn't remember.

"What is this Marius guy like?"

"Are you sure you aren't her ex?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Snappy. Well… he's cute. A little nerdy. He's fluent in English and German in addition to French. He comes from a rich family and he's a police officer. All in all, a pretty damn good suitor for your 'old friend'," Eponine told him, taking another sip of her scotch.

"You'll help me find her tomorrow, though?"

"Yeah, yeah. She's a kindergarten teacher. Recess is at one."

* * *

 **Shout out to astoryinred, shadows-of-1832, and PeachesPoison for reviewing!**

 **See you guys soon! Next chapter we'll find out exactly how Enjolras and Eponine know each other... and will our poor "ghosties" find any solace with the living?**


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